Pieces of Eight
by tearsofamiko
Summary: --Friendship makes prosperity more shining and lessens adversity by dividing and sharing it.-- No slash, features the whole gang
1. Chapter 1

Title: Pieces of Eight

Author: Tearsofamiko

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: I own nothing about the White Collar series, its characters or plotlines, including any recognizable dialogue. Why rub it in?

Spoilers: Nah

Summary: "Friendship makes prosperity more shining and lessens adversity by dividing and sharing it." -- Cicero

A/N: I've not stopped writing, but I really do mean that I'm gonna slow down. I do have homework to do and I need to try to focus a little more on it and a little less on WC. :) But I'm not upset anymore and I'm not gonna go hide. Just, be considerate, even if you're tryin' to help me. Thanks.

I'm kind of borrowing the format from Isabeau1's fic _The Beta Set_, where she also is trying a drabble challenge; I have permission. :) BTW, #3 is set sometime in the future, after the parole period, I think. And, #4 is just speculation based on the previews for the finale, because Mozzie's right: people like Neal just don't end their days with the picket-fence dream (house, dog, 2.5 kids, etc).

BTW, _Pieces of Eight_ = Kate, Neal, Mozzie, Peter, Elizabeth, June, Jones, and Lauren. These drabbles include and are about the whole gang.

.:::.

**1. Comfort**

It surprises him, the little things he misses.

The smell of her hair as it feathers across his chest.

The softness of her skin as he traces her features with his artist's touch.

The way her nose wrinkles when she laughs.

How her fingers lace perfectly with his.

He shifts on the couch and glances up in frustration, a frown furrowing his brow as the silence in his apartment distracts him from the book in his lap. Giving the plot up for lost, he tosses the novel onto the coffee table and pulls himself to his feet to pour a glass of wine. On his way back to the couch, he stops by the CD player and presses a button, letting the soft, jazzy tones fill the room. He reclines on the couch, cradling his wineglass, and tries to relax.

Sometimes it surprises him how uncomfortable the fine furnishings of a spacious apartment could be.

.:::.

**2. Kiss**

He wakes disoriented, in an unfamiliar bed. Without moving a muscle, he gathers as much intel on his situation as he can; fuzzy thoughts, sterile smells, crisp, cool sheets, a steady beep and the soft sound of voices in the distance all add up to one thing -- a hospital. Gingerly cracking one eye open, he tries to remember what happened.

"Neal! Peter, he's awake!" He turns his head until he can see Elizabeth sitting next to his bed and Peter hovering over her shoulder. They look worried and a little frayed and a frown touches his face as he tries and fails to remember.

"How long was I out?" he asks and the roughness of his voice startles him.

"Two days," Peter answers, relief settling into the contours of his face. "VanAllen tried to take you out with his car." And Neal's unspoken questions are answered. He stares at the ceiling and finally remembers a blue sedan and the heart-stopping moment he realized the car wasn't going to stop.

"Oh," he mumbles, unable to connect much else though the fog in his head. Peter places a gentle hand on his shoulder as Elizabeth strokes his fingers, her touch soft and soothing. He feels himself sinking back into sleep, lulled by the security of their presence.

On the cusp of slumber, inches away from dreaming, he feels Elizabeth press a kiss to his hand and he finally drifts off with a small smile on his face.

.:::.

**3. Soft**

He's in awe. There are no words to describe his feelings in this moment, nothing that could ever come close to capturing his thoughts. Fine tremors shake his hands as he tries to figure out how to do this, how to be careful and stable, gentle and steady, all without harming. His face aches with his smile, but he doesn't think it will ever go away. He finally manages to raise watery, wondering eyes from the treasure in his hands and leans over to kiss his wife.

"He's perfect," he whispers to her and doesn't see the smile that lights her luminous eyes as he turns back to the infant in his arms, stroking the baby's soft dark hair with a shaking finger. His voice is muted, barely a whisper as he names the child. "Matthew Aaron Burke."

A firm grip settles on his shoulder and he pries his eyes away from his son to meet the sincere gaze of the bright-eyed ex-conman next to him. They exchange a warm, affectionate look, Neal's eyes full of admiration and respect for his colleague and friend. Peter's fairly sure he's never seen exactly that soft, poignant look in Neal's blue eyes before, but the thought sifts away as he returns his gaze to his child and loses himself in the awe again.

.:::.

**4. Pain**

As a Federal agent, Lauren Cruz knows full well the scope of the word _pain_.

A gunshot wound from a bust gone south before her transfer to White Collar Crimes.

A broken bone after falling off a fire escape as a child of the city.

Chasing a suspect through Central Park on a sprained ankle.

A bruised heart after one too many late nights in the office and one too few uninterrupted weekends.

But she's sure she's never heard such _anguish_ as the raw agony in Neal Caffrey's voice as the woman he loves falls, the victim of a well-aimed bullet. She closes her eyes and tries to will away the echo of that sound, tries to block out his miserable sobs and gut-wrenching screams as he fights against the arms holding him back, keeping him from flying across the tarmac to the broken body crumpled in the distance.

.:::.

**5. Potatoes**

"Whatcha doin'?" Haversham asks hesitantly, peeking cautiously into the pot bubbling on the stove.

"Nothing, Moz."

The response is unusually curt, prompting Mozzie to level a speculative look at his friend. His eyebrows furrow briefly as he calculates the date and counts back the years, realization dawning in his eyes as he pinpoints the reason for Neal's foray into the domestic arts. Glancing once more at the pot, he heads over to the refrigerator, pulls out a tub of sour cream, and places it on the table in front of his friend. Weary blue eyes rise from the sketch book Neal's doodling on and Mozzie shrugs at the unspoken question.

"My mom always put sour cream in her mashed potatoes. Might actually make yours edible this time."

Neal's quiet chuckle follows him out of the kitchen as Mozzie heads for the stairs and Neal's apartment, leaving the other man to his memories and comfort food.


	2. Chapter 2

Same disclaimer applies.

#7 is supposed to be set within this year, thus Valentine's Day is on a Sunday. Also, #10 is set shortly after _Free Fall_ but before _Hard Sell_ and #8 is pre-series.

Apologies if anyone seems OoC at any point (such as #9, lol).

.:::.

**6. Rain**

He sighs and tips his head back to stare at the skylights, a small smile playing over his face as he watches the raindrops patter against the glass. Listening to the steady rhythm, he decides that it's very relaxing, in a rather Zen fashion. In the rain-washed silence of his apartment, it would be very easy to forget the outside world, to hide himself in this comfortable nook for the day and just _be_. No obligations. No cons. No heartbreak. No mysteries.

Suddenly, the dreary lighting gets to him, is no longer relaxing but vaguely sinister. The silence is as unnerving as a riot and he feels his heart rate shoot through the roof as he jumps to his feet and snatches open the door, barely pausing to grab his cell phone. Managing to calmly make it down the stairs, he heads out the front door and breaks into a jog, relishing the feel of the rain on his skin and the spring chill through his sodden clothes.

Minutes later, he collapses on a bench in the park, sheltered under the same gazebo June loves so much. Here, with the fresh smell of rain-wet grass and the soft sizzle of water on tree leaves, he can finally relax. He lets himself go boneless on the bench, immersing himself in the sounds and smells of the rain-soaked city, until even the slight weight of the tracker on his ankle disappears.

.:::.

**7. Chocolate**

She's pretty sure she's never been this excited for Valentine's Day. Not even for that first one with Peter, the first year she got diamonds for the holiday. This year, though, she started counting down in January, with all the eagerness of a child waiting for Christmas.

The confusion in Peter's eyes makes her giggle each time she mentions the holiday. It's obvious he's lost; he probably doesn't even realize what Sunday is. She knows he'll probably rush out that day and return with an armful of roses and some semi-expensive gift to make up for his forgetfulness, but even that isn't the root of her excitement.

No, the more she thinks about Valentine's Day, the stronger her craving grows and the more excited she gets. Because this year, Neal Caffrey promised her the best chocolate in the city and she can't wait to see what he comes up with.

The suspense is killing her and she's loving every second of it.

.:::.

**8. Happiness**

She sees it every time she visits, that eager spark that lights his luminous eyes when she comes into view. The look on his face always changes from resigned to hungry when his eyes glow like that, a look reminiscent of their early days, when they couldn't get enough of each other. She places her hand on the partition in their customary greeting and he presses his against hers on the other side, his fingertips going white and flat as he tries to touch her through the glass.

They talk for a while, though it's more a case of her rambling about her life and Mozzie while he listens, rapt, hanging on her every word. She's pretty sure she could recite the phone book and he wouldn't care, so long as she was there and speaking to him. She wonders, though, if he's noticed how her visits are getting shorter, how she can't quite meet his eyes as he stares at her. She knows he lives for her visits, but she really can't be sure if he notices the little things like that. Being in prison has blunted some of his skills, or maybe it's just the lack of her. As she ends this visit -- five minutes earlier than last time -- she realizes that he _hasn't _noticed those things.

In his happiness to see her, he hasn't seen how sick it makes her, seeing him caged like this, hungry just for the sight of her face.

She runs through the doors, into the bright, clean, open sunlight outside.

.:::.

**9. Telephone**

"Hello?" Hesitant, questioning.

"Hi, Peter!"

"Neal, where are you? You were supposed to check in an hour ago!" Barely contained anger, tinged with a hint of worry.

"Oh, Peter, I'm _fine_. Really. These guys are _so_ nice and, I mean, Ralph promised me he didn't do _anything_, so I'm right and you're wrong. I told you it was--"

"Peter Burke?" The unfamiliar voice shoots a spike of adrenaline through him.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, you need to come pick up your friend. He's, uh, well-- He _said_ they didn't get him, but there was a bar fight earlier and I think one of them broke a bottle over his head when he helped break it up. I mean, he'd had a glass of wine or two before, and I can't be sure, but--"

"I'll be there in ten minutes. _Keep him there_, please_._" He rolls his eyes as he hears Neal singing as he hangs up. "Jones--"

"Keep an eye out, you're going to get Caffrey. I gotcha, boss."

He grumbles to himself when he catches the suppressed smile on his second's face as he climbs out of the van. _Only Neal_.

.:::.

**10. Ears**

"How would you have done it?" Peter asks and is surprised by the discomfort on Caffrey's face. "What?"

The con man glances over his shoulder, examining the empty bull pen before looking carefully through the glass walls on either side of the room. As he settles back into his chair, the look on his face hasn't dissipated at all and Peter's seriously starting to wonder about the man.

"Something wrong?" he questions dryly as he watches Neal continue to debate with himself. Blue eyes settle on his face and he gets the feeling he's being judged and he suddenly hopes he passes muster; he's not seen the con this hesitant about giving his opinion since they first started working together. Quirking one eyebrow, he's rewarded with a reluctant sigh as Neal finally decides to answer.

"I'd've had someone helping, someone who could knock out the cameras and watch for passersby while I was inside. It would take weeks of research, on the security system, the layout of the building and the sculpture's location. And a piece that old would require special transportation and storage later, to keep it from being damaged." Neal leans close to the desk as he explains, his voice low and secretive, his eyes darting back and forth as he thinks through the heist. Peter smirks slightly at all of the deliberation to reveal such simple information.

"There. Was that so hard?" he teases, glancing down at the file in his hands as he processes what he was told.

"The walls have ears," he hears Neal mutter under his breath, and he looks up to see the con man drumming his fingers on his knee as he continues to study the walls of Peter's office, a perturbed expression on his face.

Suddenly, the need for caution isn't so funny anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

Same disclaimer applies.

#11 is pre-series. Obviously. :) And I'm just guessing about Hughes' rank back then. #14 is set before #03. :D Oh, and #15 features an appearance by Cindy, the pretty art-student granddaughter. :)

I fudged #12 just a little bit, because I didn't want to go there... Set pretty early in the series and supposes that Jones went to pick Neal up one day instead of Peter.

.:::.

**11. Name**

"Burke!"

Reflexively, Peter looks up, meeting Hughes' eyes as he beckons for him. He warily approaches the Assistant Director's office, wondering what the older man could possibly want with him. "Sir?"

"You finished with that theft at the Met?"

"Yessir," Peter answers, unsure where this is leading, somehow understanding that it's important.

"You heard about that incident on Wall Street?"

"Yessir, some new-money tycoon lost most of his funds to a Rain-man prodigy that flipped on 'em, right?"

"They've asked for our help in catching the guy." Hughes leans over his desk, retrieves a thin manila folder, and hands it over to Peter. "We think that's him."

Peter starts to flip open the file when something about Hughes' demeanor distracts him. "Sir?"

"For the foreseeable future, Burke, _this_ is your only case." His tone is grim but a gleam of amusement is visible deep in the old man's eyes.

With trepidation, Peter lifts the cover of the file and begins to read.

"_Neal Caffrey, alias Nicholas Halden..."_

.:::.

**12. Sensual (Sensuous)**

"Wait here, Agent Jones. Neal should be down in a minute," June calls as she wanders away into the house, not noticing the dumbstruck look on the young agent's face.

He'd listened passively as Peter griped about the upgrade in Neal's living arrangements but, despite the breadth of the complaints, he hadn't expected this. Sumptuous carpets, exquisite paintings, delicate knickknacks, handsome furniture; each piece individually is more than Clinton could ever imagine living with, but the whole together was beyond words. Carefully, afraid he'd break something simply by moving, he steps forward to examine the nearest painting.

"Holy crap," he mutters under his breath, marveling at the meticulous brushstrokes and delicate coloring used to depict a flowered forest path. His eyes widen as he recognizes the signature in the corner and he stumbles away from the painting for fear of damaging a _real _Monet. Staring wildly around the entryway, he can't help but muse aloud. "Who'd even _consider_ running from a place like this?"

"It's not about the stuff," Neal comments behind him and Jones nearly jumps out of his skin. He whirls to face the smirking con man. "Never was." That keen blue gaze studies him for a second before Caffrey adjusts the hat on his head and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Come on, Peter's probably waiting, less than patiently."

Jones follows slowly, wordlessly, staring in awe at June's possessions until Neal tugs on one sleeve to get him out on the street.

.:::.

**13. Death**

"Whoa! Hey, now!" Neal freezes, hands in the air, as the gun is aimed at him. His eyes dart back and forth as he tries to find a way out of the situation. This time, though, there isn't one.

Peter's halfway across town, racing traffic and time and swiftly losing ground. Jones and Cruz have their hands full three blocks away, gathering up Jakob Nathanson's antiquities smuggling ring in their warehouse headquarters. And Neal is alone, having chased Nathanson himself through a maze of alleyways and side streets. This time, it's up to him to save himself.

He gulps reflexively as he stares at the unforgiving steel focused on his chest. Nathanson's anxiety is clear in the way his aim wavers and that scares Neal almost more than the gun; an accidental shot would be harder to dodge than a deliberate one.

"Hey, man, I'm sure we can--"

"No!" Nathanson screams at him, his voice echoing off the alley walls. "I'm ruined! My life is over! Over!"

"Please..." Neal pleads faintly. He counts up the number of times he's looked Death in the eye, in all the numerous ways. The tally is sickening and he suspects that, this time, his luck's run out. "Please," he whispers, as his resolve fails and his eyes slip shut.

.:::.

**14. Sex**

"Neal! Neal!"

Neal looks up from the book he's reading as Peter's voice carries up the stairs, conveying an emotion he's not heard before. Across the room, seated on the couch watching TV, Mozzie looks like a frightened rabbit, all wide eyes and frozen features. Neal smirks at his friend's expression as he stands to open the door, stopping abruptly as it flies open and Peter rushes into the room.

"Peter, what the--"

"Neal, look!" And a small photograph is thrust into his hands. Frowning slightly as he tries to decipher the grainy image, realization gradually dawns and he looks up to meet Peter's shining gaze.

"Is this...?" he asks, wonder coloring his tone, and Peter nods vigorously. Neal briefly studies the photo again, then rushes forward to congratulate his friend. He can't help the chuckle that escapes him at the slightly panicked glaze over Peter's eyes and it grows into laughter at the sheepish look he gets for the laugh. "So when--"

"No!" Mozzie interrupts, standing abruptly and shoving past them to leave the apartment, his voice trailing behind him as he runs down the stairs. _"I do not want to know when the Suits last had sex!"_

.:::.

**15. Touch**

On a whim, she pushes back the lid, resting her hands on the keys before picking out a melody. Simply at first, then with growing complexity, Henry Manicini's timeless tune fills the house. She smiles softly as tears prick her eyes, memories of countless afternoons spent at the same piano drifting through her mind.

Upon reaching the end of the tune, she just sits and caresses the keys, enjoying the cool touch of ivory against her fingertips. A subtle sound behind her makes her turn and she's surprised to see Neal standing in the doorway watching her. She hadn't know he was home or she wouldn't have given in to her impulse; she didn't like having an audience when she played, preferring the simple communion between the instrument and herself over admiration for her skills.

"I didn't know you played piano," he comments lightly as he comes to perch next to her on the bench.

"I'm an artist of many talents." She loves how his smile warms his eyes. "Do you play?"

He coaxes a flowery arpeggio out of the keys in response and she grins up at him. "Any requests?"

Thinking for a second, she nods and leans her head against his shoulder. "Moon River. Grandad Byron's favorite."

He smiles gently at her as his fingers begin to dance over the keys, filling the air once more with the haunting melody, made deep and beautiful and rich under his expert touch. She closes her eyes and lets the music wash over her, as memories of Granma June and Grandad Byron dancing fill her mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Same disclaimer applies.

.:::.

**-!-SPOILER ALERT FOR THE SEASON 1 FINALE-!-**

This is your warning.

.:::.

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HOLY CRAP! Alright, guys. #16 was written before the finale, I promise you. And I swear, on Neal's smokin' hot bod ( XD ) that_ #17_ _was written before the finale._ I swear. Though, it is now reasonable to say that #17 is set shortly after the events in the finale. :)

#18 is set right after _All In _(actually you have to know who one of the characters is to understand), but don't ask me why Bai and her father are at the FBI offices, 'cause even I don't know. :) And #19 is a bit of a stretch, but I'm too overwhelmed by the finale to get too far away from the angsty side of WC right now. :)

Meh, the lyrics are borrowed, too. I don't own the song.

.:::.

**16. Weakness**

They have a good thing going, Peter muses one day, listening to Neal's feed as they run surveillance from a van outside. Neal gets to do what he does best, without the legal repercussions, and the FBI's closure rate has increased dramatically. But it's more than that and the conversation over the wire blends together as he tries to define it to himself.

He'd tried to explain it to Kate once. Neal is good. Not just with his hands or because of his skills. He's a good guy, deep in his heart, whose reasoning may sometimes be a little skewed but is generally right on the money. He's loyal and dedicated, once his trust is earned. And he is Peter's friend and partner, the one person he's closest to, aside from El.

There's one weak point in their relationship: Kate. And it galls Peter that Neal won't listen to reason. There was nothing in her eyes when he confronted her that night, not compassion, not desperation, no hint of anything other than distrust. He's tried to explain it to Neal, tried to talk him out of his unhealthy relationship with that woman, but they have too much past and too little trust in each other for that to work. Instead, he's enlisted Mozzie and El, hoping that maybe they'll have luck where he didn't.

He just hopes someone will get through to Neal before he does something stupid.

.:::.

**17. Tears**

As she opens the front door, she's mildly surprised to see him standing there. He looks worn and tired and a little broken and she smiles sympathetically at the sheepish shrug he offers. Wordlessly, she gestures and he steps carefully into the house, taking special care not to touch her.

As she shuts the door, she considers Neal's appearance. While not unusual, it's unexpected; after what Peter told her about the day, they'd both figured the younger man would keep to himself, mourning his loss in private. Obviously they were wrong and, briefly, she wishes Peter was at home, not filling out paperwork at the office. She suspects, though, that if Peter were home, Neal wouldn't be here.

She turns and sees him standing aimlessly in the living room, Satchmo quivering with suppressed excitement at his feet. Narrowing her eyes, she takes in the little things: wrinkled suit, red-rimmed eyes, slumped shoulders. He exudes loneliness and her throat tightens at the sight he presents. As she steps close to him and places a gentle hand on his arm, his eyes rise to meet hers, his broken heart on display in those expressive baby-blues. Rubbing his arm in an attempt to soothe, she pulls him forward and feels him crumble as his arms come around her and his forehead settles against her shoulder.

She whispers nonsense in his ear, hugging him close to let him know he's not alone, when he breaks down, his body trembling under her hands. And hot tears dampen her shoulder as he finally begins to accept.

.:::.

**18. Speed**

Peter glances up and smiles indulgently at the childish giggle that floats through the door. Setting his pen aside, he stands and moves to the conference room doorway, raising an arm to lean against the doorframe and watch the show unfolding at the large conference table.

Neal is seated with his back to Peter, the cold cases assigned to him abandoned on the table, teaching Bai one of his sleight-of-hand tricks. He repeats the trick once, twice, three times, slow enough that the little girl could easily follow each movement. Her eyes are serious as she studies his hands, a tiny line appearing between her eyebrows as she concentrates. The fourth time Neal moves to perform the trick, the card disappears in the blink of an eye -- there one second, gone the next. And again Bai's laughter shimmers through the air as she claps her hands and reaches for the card. It's produced from inside Neal's jacket and Peter smiles again as Bai attempts the trick with fumbling fingers.

Jones appears at the conference room's door to take Bai back to her father and the girl jumps to give Neal a hug before running past Jones to the bullpen. There's silence in the room for a time, then Neal spins in the chair to face Peter. Clasping his hands behind his head, he solemnly regards the other man, watching as Peter pushes away from the wall and turns to head back to his desk.

"Learn anything, Peter?" Caffrey calls as Peter picks up his pen again and pulls a file out of the stack on the corner of his desk.

"Yeah. You have too much time on your hands if you're doing card tricks for little kids," he responds dryly, taking a drink of his coffee, and is gratified to hear Neal's chuckle from the other room.

The sound of his honest amusement brings a smile to Peter's face as he tries again to focus on the paperwork in front of him.

.:::.

**19. Wind**

"_Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind..."_

Mozzie buries his face in his hands, letting his shoulders slump as he collapses into the emotions, the private break-down given a more-than-fitting soundtrack by the radio in the corner.

None of them had expected things to go down this fast. Yesterday they're finalizing their plans, as Neal adds the final touches to their tickets to Easy Street. Mozzie feels himself to be an expert on these things and even he had to admit that, were it not for him watching as Neal worked for weeks to create them, the bank bonds were as nearly exact as any copy could be. Truly a masterpiece.

And he's had a lot of masterpieces pass through his hands over the years.

Twelve hours later, they're all waiting to make the drop, Kate at the end of a nearby alley, watching the foot traffic through the narrow street, Mozzie at the intersection, a colorful cartoon-mascot handing out fliers for a new bakery down the way, and Neal inside a coffee shop, the very picture of a businessman on break. One second, Mozzie thinks he sees their fence a half-a-block away and, the next, the entire street's crawling with Feds and Neal and Kate are nowhere to be seen.

Mozzie waits with bated breath, carefully joining the crowd mobbed at the end of the street, hoping that Neal will sidle up beside him and grin, Kate hovering impatiently in the background. It doesn't happen; instead, Neal's hauled out of an alley -- Kate's alley -- in handcuffs, his suit wrinkled and something indefinable shining in his eyes. Mozzie slips away, ditches the costume, and retreats to his storage unit.

Neal flew too close to the sun this time, and Mozzie can't help but feel he was the one providing the wind to get him there.

.:::.

**20. Freedom**

It's inches away, so close he can literally see it, can almost touch it: freedom. Who knew that after so many months scheming and dealing to get it on his own, it would be freely, legally gifted to him? He shoves down the pessimist in the back of his mind, refusing to believe that this, this wonderful reward, could be too good to be true.

He could almost hate Mozzie for reminding him of the Chinese curse. _May you live in interesting times._ He never wanted this much interest in his life, just Kate and her love. Just the two of them, in a quiet corner of the world. And now he's so close to getting that, close enough he can see her, close enough that, given a few seconds, he can touch her, trace her face with his fingers and feel her skin against his hands. The sunlight is warm as he steps out of the shadow of the hanger, squinting at the brightness of the day.

She's here and he's here and she's not running any more, she's just waiting, watching him from the plane as he starts across the tarmac. _May you find what you're looking for._

It's not been easy, but somehow it's been worth it, all the ups and downs, even the years in prison. He's got her back and they're free and it's all entirely legal. That's all that matters.

_May you live in interesting times._

_May you find what you're looking for._


	5. Chapter 5

Same disclaimer applies

Let's see: #21 and #25 contain spoilers for the finale; #21 is rather dark, but #25 isn't. #22 is an idea I had, thinking about how both Kate and Neal had someone jealous of them (and it's VERY different from anything else I've written), set pre-series. #23 is set pre-series and is Kate/Neal (just so there's no confusion). And I think, though #22 and #23 stretch the limit a little, this whole thing still stays within its rating; I've never written anything like them before, so I really don't know. :)

.:::.

**21. Life**

"No!" he shouts, struggling against the iron grip Peter has him wrapped in. He strains and struggles, trying to break free, to make Peter let him go, so he can try, do _something_, dammit, something other than simply watch her burn. He fights and claws and begs, but Peter's too strong for him, too vigilant, too used to his dodges and schemes, for him to get loose. And, as thoughts finally begin to connect in his head, something horrifying and nauseating overwhelms him and he snaps.

Without thinking, filled with desperation, he lashes out, catching Peter's jaw hard with his fist. He sees blankness fill that warm, brown gaze for a second and renews his struggles, finally managing to escape. His bag slaps his back and his knees threaten to buckle, but he's running, faster than he ever has before, fully intent on throwing himself into the flames -- to find her or to join her, he doesn't know and, frankly, doesn't care. He was supposed to be there in the first place, supposed to be next to her on that plane.

For the second time, he's thrown to the ground as Peter tackles him. Frustrated and aching, body and soul, Neal cries out, anguish and heartache breaking free in a wordless, agonized sound as he claws at the ground, trying to drag himself out from under Peter's restraining weight. But the flames are burning a little lower now, and he begins to realize that he's never going to see her again, that he's losing his chance to join her this one last time. With as much determination as he'd ever shown in chasing him down, Peter is stubbornly tethering him to life now, refusing -- as he always has -- to let Neal follow Kate.

And, for the first time, he thinks he hates Peter for it.

.:::.

**22. Jealousy**

It was all too simple to start this, to launch into this passive-aggressive attack on Neal. Keller hadn't even been all that hard to find and Alex can't help but wonder if he'd been hoping to be found. A quick glance at those cold, cunning eyes and she knows he did want to be found. But not by her. It's never her.

Eyes closed, though, and it's not too difficult to believe it's not him next to her. Eyes closed, she sees warm blue eyes instead of cold gray. Eyes closed, she sees a smile of warm invitation, filled with desire and caring, not Keller's condescending sneer. There's no finesse in Keller's touch, not like there would be in Neal's, but there's gentleness and restraint and somehow she realizes that, just as there's someone else behind her eyelids, there's someone else behind his. She shoves away the searing nausea of the awareness, throwing herself into the touch and the feel and the dream of someone else.

That night, they sleep with neither the ones they love, nor each other, but the unyielding, uncaring specter of their jealousy.

.:::.

**23. Hands**

She loves to watch his hands as he creates. It doesn't matter what he's doing -- painting, sculpting, playing piano -- she just loves to watch the graceful gestures he makes, the way every single motion has a purpose. No matter what persona he cloaks himself with during a con, she muses, his hands always remind her that he is, first and foremost, an artist of exceptional talent.

She blinks and finds his eyes focused on her face, though there is no pause as he smoothes out an imperfection in the clay he's working. Suddenly, she remembers the other reasons she likes his hands -- their gentleness as he touched the side of her face with one trembling finger after their first kiss; their strength as he swung her around in an excess of elation after their first successful con together; their warmth as they trail over her body, memorizing every inch of her through touch alone. She blinks again and he's there in front of her, his sculpture abandoned for a time as he runs his thumb over her bottom lip and his eyes burn with expressive fire.

It's all the invitation she needs, as she moves willingly into his arms.

.:::.

**24. Taste**

She stands staring at the closet, running her fingers over suits and shirts and wondering how much of her new friend's interest is feigned. He'd seemed ecstatic at the offer she'd made him, but his smile has that same varnished shine Byron's so often did. She grins a little to herself at the memory, the expression turning fond as she pulls out a jacket and inspects the fabric. With unsurprising ease, memories of her husband and their time together flow over her, pulling her backward on the faint smell of his cologne that still clings to the clothes in front of her.

He always dressed so nicely, never a thing out of place or a wrinkle in the flawless cut of his suits. It'd been his appearance that caught her attention first, his polished smile next, but it was his warm brown eyes -- eyes that promised to love her and care for her -- that closed the deal. But, in all their years together, through the good times and the bad, his sense of style always stayed the same. And she had to admit, she'd never met a man who could wear a suit quite like her Byron.

She carefully hangs the jacket back with its fellows, then reaches high into the top of the closet to pull down one of the several boxes resting on the shelf. With tender hands, she wipes the dust off the leather case and flips the latches, smiling at the contents within. Though Mr. Caffrey had only briefly fiddled with the hat she'd brought to the thrift shop, something about the way he'd run his fingers over the silk band and the graceful way he'd flipped the hat onto his head tells he is exactly what her Byron had been: sleek, graceful, charming, and very, _very_ good at balancing on the tightrope that is the law. She smiles as she spins a charcoal-gray hat on one finger, her worries evaporating.

It'll be good to have a man around the house again.

.:::.

**25. Devotion**

He hears it in El's voice each time he calls to tell her he's working late, sees it in her smiling eyes when he zones into the middle of a conversation with her and realizes he's missed something, feels it in the gentleness of her hands, the warmth of her morning kiss, all the little things she does for him to remind him she's there. And he tries, in his own simple way, to return it to her.

It's in his expression as he spends a weekend wandering antique shows with her. It shows in the way he's hesitant, but still willing to play a guinea pig for her and her business. It's audible in their simple, casual banter about work and friends and life. It's tangible in the way his hands carefully cup her face after a long case, in the occasional brush as they work to fix dinner together, in the way he makes sure to kiss her before he leaves for work each day. And his eyes declare it to the world each time he looks at her, thinks about her, speaks of her.

But his devotion to her is never more obvious than in the split-second after she's shoved into another FBI agent's arms, her hands cinched behind her by handcuffs. In that second, a different side of Peter is revealed, one that acts before careful thought and is more prone to violence than reason. He gives no thought to the legal ramifications of his actions, nor does he stop to consider any ulterior motive Fowler may have; he only knows that his wife -- the woman he loves and has sworn to protect -- was being attacked, in word and in action. In that second, all of his devotion, all of his frustration with the way they've been treated by Fowler, all of his worry about how this whole conundrum will affect her and their happiness together coils behind his fist as it meets Fowler's smug face.

Afterward, he's pretty sure nothing's ever felt better than the searing ache in his hand, except maybe the knowledge that finally, _finally_, he's proven himself as devoted to her as she is to him.


End file.
